


The Opposite of Innocence

by JustAnotherGhostwriter



Series: The Opposite of Innocence [1]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, This writer overuses em dashes and semi-colons, growing back together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 20:09:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12440694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherGhostwriter/pseuds/JustAnotherGhostwriter
Summary: A question as complicated as defining the opposite of innocence deserves a complicated answer. Or, in this case, three answers:1) Knowledge. In which the growing-back-together of Peeta and Katniss includes Peeta getting sick with the non-healer Everdeen as his caretaker.2) Loss. In which Finnick Odair comes to visit the Mellarks – in more ways than one.3) Guilt. In which Peeta still has one prosthetic leg, and there are children around to deal with this fact of life along with them.





	1. Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forthegenuine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegenuine/gifts).



> This work is dedicated to forthegenuine, who doesn’t know me from a bar of soap but who wrote [Good Things Will Strive to Dwell](http://archiveofourown.org/works/534854); a fic I have read easily over thirty times. Because I stupidly forgot to take my beta reading with me on a very long work-related bus ride, Good Things was one of the things I read to occupy my time. And reading it again wrote chapter three of this in my head. Once that was written, the other two chapters birthed themselves. Thank you, forthegenuine, for writing such gloriousness for this fandom. 
> 
> Warnings for this fic as a whole: mentions of death, blood, trauma, loss of limbs, grief, torture, slight self-harm, depression and just about everything else you’d expect from a _Hunger Games_ fic. 
> 
> I don’t own the series, and this is for no profit or any benefit to me, save for acting as a silencer for the plot bunny that has been writing lines over and over in my head.

It’s become startling for me to wake up and find the bed empty save for myself. Startling, and another small list of emotions I don’t really understand, and don’t want to look at too closely in case I do. Despite my best efforts to ignore anything but the practical simplicity and necessity of existing, worry and guilt gnaw at my mind as I realise I’ve instinctively snuggled into the slowly-cooling patch on the other side of the bed.

I’d been too preoccupied with keeping my family alive and myself sane the last time I asked for this nightmare-salving sleeping arrangement. But too much – far too much – has happened since then, and I can’t help but wonder at how unfair I’m being asking this of him. Or perhaps, I think sardonically, I’ve actually grown a bit of a heart since our Victory Tour.

Finally I get sick of chasing and ignoring emotions and fling myself out of bed despite the hour, and pad downstairs, wearing the huge, fluffy blanket we rarely need thanks to our combined body heat. Even if Peeta’s house wasn’t an exact replica of mine I’d have been able to find my way easily in the pre-dawn darkness thanks to how much time I’ve spent in his home over the past couple of months. There are just too many memories and failures and ghosts to face in my home – the only home of mine that’s left standing, that is. Even Buttercup has moved over, and I spot him now taking up an entire sofa by himself as he sleeps.  

The light in the kitchen is on, and it’s bright enough that I have to pause in the doorway to squint and blink for a bit. Peeta is already baking, using the counter space he extended to prepare dough while the oven warms up. He insisted that they rebuild houses for those who want and need them in the district first before even thinking of a new bakery. And while I certainly see his point, the gesture means he has only got his normal-sized kitchen and normal-sized oven to bake all the bread the whole district needs. It wasn’t too much to ask in the beginning when there were barely a handful of people in the rubble that was once Twelve. But people have slowly started returning home and Peeta now has to wake even earlier if he wants to be able to finish as much bread as he needs to, let alone have time for the other baked goods he enjoys making and decorating. I only know of his extended hours because I am privy to what he does with most of his time; he doesn’t offer a single complaint to anybody, not even when they’re berating him for being late with the day’s delivery.

I understand needing to keep busy, of course, but that’s not why I haven’t called him out on how ragged he is running himself. Instead, my reasoning for my silence is much more complicated – it’s because the gesture of selfless, gentle hard work is so _Peeta –_ the old Peeta, the real Peeta – that something in me exhales and grows less heavy every time I catch sight of it.

I’m so focused on Peeta focusing on his task that when he suddenly twists his head so he can sneeze explosively into his elbow I actually jump a step backwards. And that makes me realise that I’ve put myself in a bit of a sticky situation by standing in the doorway silently watching him; if I say anything to announce myself, I’ll startle him. And if he turns and finds me watching, I’ll startle him. Startling Peeta with my presence is still not something I should be doing, I know, so I begin to back out of the room so I can make a noisier approach to the kitchen.

But as I move he sneezes again – twice, this time – and then glances in my direction almost instinctively. Catching sight of me, he jerks in surprise and the piece of butter he had in his hands goes skidding across the counter.

“Sorry,” I blurt out, contrite, watching his wide eyes blink at me and stay very blue.

“It’s fine – I have butter fingers.” He grins softly and I roll my eyes. “Too cheesy a joke? I can _roll_ out another one.”

“Peeta,” I groan. “Stop getting your sense of humour from Greasy Sae’s granddaughter.”

He starts to laugh at me, but the laugh turns into a slight cough he tries very unsuccessfully to hide. I’d thought the sneezing was because he inhaled some flour or something; now I’m a lot more concerned. I stalk forward, giving him a hard look. The combination of growing up my mother’s daughter and a hunter makes me notice the signs of illness, even though he’s trying to turn his body so I can’t see much of his face.

“You don’t think I have my own great sense of humour?” he says lightly, staring resolutely at the dough while I scrutinise the pale, flushed, sweaty look of his face.

“What I think you do have is a fever.”

I extract one hand from the blanket wrap and reach up to confirm my hypothesis, but he casually avoids my touch. Irritation flashes through me, but I lower my hand instead of trying to touch him again because I’d promised myself a long time ago I would not push Peeta’s boundaries. I don’t get to be the one to do that – not after everything he’s been through and done for me in the past. And certainly not after how much I saw it cost him, these past few weeks, to be able to crawl into bed and hold me as we sleep.

“I’m fine. It’s a little thing I’ll be over by this evening.”

I stare at him until he meets my eyes, his gaze calm and unwavering. Indecision tugs at me – conflicting instincts – and I watch him continue to bake, pausing every now and then to sneeze quietly into his elbow.

“I’m going out to hunt,” I finally decide. “I’ll need to find something for myself to eat – I’m certainly not munching on bread with extra Mellark as a topping.”  

“I’m being very, very careful not to infect the bread,” Peeta says seriously. And then his eyebrow rises as he watches me leave, the stupid blanket nearly tripping me. “You know it’s pouring with rain out there, right? And cold?”  

I shoot him a level look. “Are you seriously trying to tell _me_ not to get sick?”

His lips quirk. “Voice of experience?” He was probably going to say more, but the last bit of his words hitched upwards as he tried not to cough and failed.

“Call my mother,” I shoot over my shoulder, still trailing the blanket like a train. “Or I will.”

“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” he calls after me.

I find myself believing him enough to mostly put him out of my mind for the day. But then I wander in after a long day of hunting and chatting to Greasy Sae and skinning and tanning, and I find him sprawled over the kitchen counter with his head in his hands, face turned toward the oven, and panic flares. I shouldn’t have left him alone the whole day. I should have _thought_. I say his name cautiously and he lifts his head to me. His eyes are glassy and unfocussed – feverish, but not mad. He’s very obviously gotten a lot worse over the past few hours instead of better like he predicted, and I can’t help but think that the odds are never in his favour. I instantly hate myself for it.

I call my mother like I threatened, because of course he hadn’t. She sighs at the end of my every answer to her questions, especially when I have to guiltily admit that, yes, he has been out in the cold and rain doing deliveries the whole day. And, yes, he has spent the rest of the day working himself ragged by baking. I wanted to defend myself by saying that usually we both need to work ourselves completely exhausted so that there is no time for anything else and bone-deep wariness that beats out the fear of falling asleep, but I manage to hold my tongue. My mother knows as much about that as she’ll ever understand. And it seems… disloyal, somehow, to talk about how broken Peeta still is behind his back when he’s come so very far and is trying so very hard. For both of us.

My mother gives me instructions and I go out into the drizzle to get some supplies, despite Peeta’s hoarse protests. I come back in time to help his shaking hands remove the last batch of bread for the day; half of the next morning’s first delivery. I then firmly manhandle him to bed, having to half drag him as he alternates between insisting he’s fine to do another batch of cookies, and insisting he should sleep somewhere else so he doesn’t infect me.  

“Peeta,” I snap, “I slept next to you the whole of last night. I’ve breathed in all your germs already.”

This only makes him look more upset. “More reason why it shouldn’t happen again tonight,” he insists stubbornly, trying to gently extract himself from my grip so he can go downstairs.

So I play dirty. “Please don’t leave,” I ask him, quietly, and the request halts every escape attempt.

I head to the bathroom to change, leaving Peeta his privacy in his bedroom. I come back in time to catch him taking off his prosthetic, carefully angled so I cannot see much of what is going on. For the first few nights we shared a bed he did what he’d done on the Victory Tour and in the arena and while we were in the Capitol – he kept his leg on. But I caught him limping one day, very slightly, and finally got him to admit that sleeping with it on is uncomfortable at best and painful on some occasions. I’ve since convinced him of the truth that it doesn’t bother me, but he still always doffs the prosthetic so that I can’t see the process or his leg. And I don’t ever pry.

The night is awful. Peeta, who is usually silent and still even in his worst nightmares, wakes up shouting and thrashing, trying to fight and run from remembered or imaginary monsters. When I manage to capture his attention he refuses to be soothed, clutching at me and insisting we need to run. Sometimes his painful grip on me is meant to cause me pain, and he rants vicious things that should make me want to run from him. I don’t – he’s delirious enough that talking him into drinking more medicine and going back to sleep is relatively easy. At around three in the morning, after he’s woken up yelling for about the twelfth time, I give up on sleeping myself and just hold his shaking, sweating form close to me, trying to soothe the coughing that wracks him even in sleep as I can do nothing for the nightmares.  

I can’t help but think of the cave and how different things are this time. I’m grateful that despite appearances this is just a mild illness that will pass and won’t take him from me; nothing like the blood poisoning in the Games. But the cave held a mostly lucid Peeta – no matter how high his fever had reached, he’d remained talkative and joking and even reassuring. The fact that this fever has undone Peeta so much reminds me of how much the slightly clueless boy with the bread has witnessed and endured since our first Games. And it reminds me how much of that need to endure was my fault.

My thoughts chase themselves in dark, accusing, painful spirals, and the circle only stops in the few moments when Peeta wakes and I can concentrate on him instead. His fever goes down somewhat sometime close to dawn, and by the time the sun rises Peeta rouses slowly and peacefully and regards me with lucidity. Catching sight of me, his wan face immediately grows concerned and upset. Apparently, I look about as great as I feel.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely, stopping to cough. “I… what did…”

Slowly, his glazed eyes widen. He reaches for me clumsily and sluggishly, but I still don’t understand what he is doing in time to stop him. There are bruises, I see in the dim light of dawn, where his fingers clutched at me during the night. Peeta lets go of me as though he’s been burned and tries to scoot further away from me in the bed. I grab onto him to stop him leaving and calmly, forcefully explain they are from when he was clutching me in fear. Fever dreams, not flashbacks. It’s only half the truth, but I’ve changed since the cave, too – I can lie much more convincingly, now.

Peeta may believe me, but my words are still clumsy and my explanations only leave him feeling more miserable. I manage to coax him back to sleep, promising I will sleep with him. But although keeping my promise sounds incredibly alluring, I cannot let myself rest when we’re out of my mother’s home remedy. I go out in the persistent rain and gather the supplies, then call my mother to check how to make the remedy again. When I’m done, I eye it sceptically and then go in search of Greasy Sae, hoping she will have some Capitol fever pills or will at least know where I can get them. I’m not taking any chances with Peeta.

When I return, his room is slightly trashed and Peeta is nowhere in sight.

Cursing my own damn stupidity, I rush to the back door and find it locked. The front has been open the whole time, but when I wrench it open I cannot find any sight of his departure. At a half-crouching march, I try finding Peeta’s tracks on the ground just outside the house. Peeta doesn’t know how to cover his tracks when he’s completely lucid, let alone when he’s feverish. Or does he? I stop and feel my chest constrict in panic. What if the hijacking also taught him how to hide his trail from me? What if I won’t find him until Thom or somebody else brings Peeta’s body to me? My shaking increases; shivers that have nothing to do with cold wracking my body. I need to _find_ him.

Despite seeing no signs, I circle Victors’ Village and look in every possible hiding place I think might appeal to a frightened Peeta. Then I search my house, thinking a hijacked Peeta might go straight for my bed in an effort to kill me in my sleep. Finally I climb the nearest tree, trying to spy any sight of him from the sky. By this time there isn’t a part of me that isn’t soaked, my fingers are starting to go numb, and I’ve bitten my tongue countless times because my teeth are chattering so hard. I need to get a coat.

I yank off my muddy boots and leave them at the front door in a squelshy mess, not wanting to cover any sign Peeta made with my own muddy footprints. It’s because I’m looking so hard that I notice the wood shavings in the hall. I pause to frown at them, and then feel myself step on something small and very hard. It’s a small key, bent out of shape and lying among the wood shavings. I stare at it uncomprehending for a long moment, and then glance at the hall closet. It’s full of shelves, and the spaces between the shelves grows bigger and bigger the closer they get to the ground. Is it possible that the space left at the bottom is big enough for Peeta to crawl into?

It’s a ridiculous possibility. But I try anyway. “Peeta?” I try the closet handle and find it locked. I try and put the key in the lock but it will no longer fit, let alone turn. “Peeta… are you… in there?”

There’s a beat of silence. “Go away.” Peeta’s voice calls raggedly from inside the closet.

I exhale noisily as relief courses through me. He’s okay. He’s not somewhere in a ditch bleeding out. He’s been in the house the whole time. I try and open the closet again, but the lock holds fast.

“Peeta, what – ”

“Please, Katniss,” he begs. “Please. I don’t want to hurt you. Leave me in here.”

“Peeta,” I say as calmly as I can. “You won’t hurt me. I know you won’t. You’re sick, Peeta. And I have medicine to help you. Come out of there.”

“I can’t,” he mumbles back, almost too quiet for me to hear. “I made sure I’m safe.”

I stare down at the twisted key in my hands, slowly understanding. He must have locked the closet from the inside and then pushed the key out through the tiny gap underneath the door. That’s what caused all the chips of wood. I’m not sure how he managed to mangle the key – was he so desperate or so caught up in a flashback that he managed to twist it with his bare hands, even sick as he is? His words suddenly hit home very painfully: _I made sure I’m safe_. But does he mean he’s safe from harming me, or safe from me harming him?

I exhale slowly and place my palm on the closet door. “Peeta,” I say gently but firmly. “I’m going to get you out of there. And then we’ll talk about it, okay? But you can’t be in there when you’re sick.”

Without waiting for a reply, I head downstairs and start looking for tools. I find a box of spare keys and take the whole lot, in case one fits the closet lock. I take some tools whose names I don’t know so I can try and straighten out the key. And then I head outside to Haymitch’s and borrow his axe without asking. I’m going to try and go in quietly, first, but I need a way to get to him fast if the gentle method doesn’t work.

Thoroughly soaked again, I head upstairs and change so I can get feeling back into my fingers. And then I set about breaking Peeta out of his own hall closet. Mostly, I work in silence, keeping my cursing to myself. Sometimes I call out to him, explaining what I’m doing when the noises startle him. Sometimes I get Peeta answering, wary and embarrassed and pained. Sometimes I get the Capitol weapon pounding against the door, trying to claw his way out to get to me. I stop trying to get in when that happens; not so much because I’m scared of him, but because I’m scared of what he’s doing to himself in his effort to get out.

I am not truly panicked until I call to him and he doesn’t answer at all.

I call his name a few more times, hearing my voice get more and more desperate. When there’s still no answer I reach for the axe. To hell with gentle. It still takes me a lot longer than I would have thought to break my way into the closet – I start with trying to chop up the wood before I realise it would be quicker just breaking the lock. I finally smash my way in, hands burning and arms screaming, and find him folded awkwardly into a tiny space, pale and unconscious. His shirt is stained and damp with sweat, but he is no longer sweating at all. His forehead is as hot as a coal stove under my hand, and I can hear him wheezing even over my own pants.

Swearing, I drop the axe and pull him roughly from the closet. There’s still no time for gentleness. Even so, he doesn’t regain consciousness, not even when I drag him roughly to the bathroom, accidentally bumping us both in my frenzied effort. Peeta is _heavy_ and I’m already tired and aching, and it’s only my determination mixed with my panic that makes me able to drag him all the way to the bathroom. I half collapse against the bath, gulping in air, and start running the water with shaking hands. It takes time I don’t feel I have to get the temperature right; I might have run for the hills most of the times my mother got a patient with more than a sniffle, but I picked up enough to know that a feverish person should be put into tepid water in order to bring their temperature down.

 It takes strength I don’t know I have to hoist him into the tub, but adrenalin is a great strength-lender. The water finally does what dragging him around and yelling his name did not. The water feels lukewarm to me, but to Peeta it’s probably uncomfortable to the point of pain. And all he sees, in his state of confused delirium, is me forcing him into the water he really doesn’t want to be in, stony faced to his pleas and pushing him deep enough his head is almost submerged. Honestly, I would have been much more surprised if this moment _didn’t_ trigger an episode. But he’s far too weak to do worse than slosh water at me at fail to get my hands off his shoulders. Even the hurtful words are disjointed and slurred, interrupted by his panting and the coughing that shakes him almost as hard as the tremors.

I need to get medicine and water into him, but I can’t let go of him until the episode passes. I don’t know what is showing on my face; I don’t know what I’m feeling beneath the solid layer of determination. Processing will come later. Right now, I need to keep him _safe_. Eventually, the water lowers his fever enough for him to come around a little. He swallows pills and drinks water dutifully, eyes struggling to focus and limbs newborn-foal weak and gangly. The flashback has drained him of what little strength he had left, and I honestly have no idea how I’m going to get him out of the tub. So I let him doze as I sit beside him in an awkward position that hurts just about everything, holding his head above the water.

The pills work to bring down his fever even further, and Peeta comes back enough to stubbornly help me haul him out of the bath. We don’t bother trying to dry him; he’s barely on his feet and I am terrible at being sturdy support by this stage. We crash into walls, furniture, doorjams, each other as we haphazardly make our way to his bed. There we both fumble with his wet clothing. It’s easier, because I’ve seen it before. It’s harder, because I haven’t seen it all before – there are so many different scars I have not been allowed to see, and my resolve to remain emotionless cracks at the sight of him. He asks me, quietly, for some more water, and I gratefully grab his offering of escape from the memories of fire and torture on his skin, adding _leaving him to struggle painfully to change his clothes_ to the list of weights I’ll have to bear when I let the emotions back in.

He’s under the covers when I return, and I crawl beside him despite how wet my clothes are from his splashing and his leaning on me. I’ll act like a cool compress; we both know he’ll probably need one soon. I can’t give him more Capitol pills yet, so I make him drink some of my mother’s home remedy and as much water as I can. Peeta drifts, and I let the emotions come slowly, crack by crack, clinging to him and using the moments he starts awake as distractions. I think having me so close and clearly distressed is causing another flashback to loom; I see his eyes darken when he looks at me, and he arches his back strangely, moving slowly and deliberately side to side. He hangs on, however, fighting fever and conditioning with barely enough strength left to cough.

It’s around midnight when I realise I could have left. I could have called Greasy Sae or somebody else and let them take care of Peeta while I shut myself up far away from the horror I was so ill-equipped to handle. But I hadn’t, because my mind is still stuck in the Games – just me and Peeta, protecting each other. Because that’s what we do. As uncomfortable as this all makes me, and as much as my presence makes it worse, sometimes, I’m not going to go anywhere. I’m not abandoning him this time.

Peeta’s kicked off the blanket and I reach down to pull it back over him. And freeze. There’s blood on the sheets; a large, sticky streak of it that’s unmistakably fresh. Heart suddenly pounding, I crawl to the end of the bed and lift the blankets from him completely. Until this moment, I’ve only ever seen his prosthetic in full when it’s beside the bed; he’s never worn shorts around me before. This is the first thing I register – the second is that he still has it on in bed, and that the joining between metal and flesh seems to be what is bleeding. I suddenly don’t know what to do. The bleeding should be stopped, but I don’t know how to remove the artificial leg so I can apply a bandage. Or should I just put a bandage around the whole thing? No, that’s silly – I _know_ it’s not comfortable to sleep in, and if it’s making him bleed… I just don’t want to make it worse. And I’m already crossing boundaries sitting here _staring_ at his leg when it’s been obvious he doesn’t want me to see. Messing with it while he’s unconscious will definitely cross almost every one of the few boundaries Peeta has quietly kept between the two of us.

But I can’t just leave him bleeding and in pain. Not even if it was my first tourniquet that caused him to lose his leg in the first place. Taking a calming breath, I crawl off the bed and rummage in the drawer I know he keeps his leg supplies in. I find some soft bandages and carry them back to the bed, dread heavy in my gut. I settle beside him again and stare for a few more minutes. Gritting my teeth, I reach for his leg, still clueless on what on earth to do.

“Don’t.”

Peeta’s croak is so unexpected I jump hard enough to jerk the whole bed, my reaching hand snapping back toward my chest instantly. His eyes aren’t on me, but they’re open.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, blushing. “I… it needs to be bandaged, Peeta.”

“Don’t,” he says again. “Pain keeps me here.”

For the longest stretching moments I don’t understand and pick through his words as he looks with fever-bright eyes anywhere but my face. And then I remember him in the Capitol, refusing to be uncuffed because rubbing his wrists raw against the metal kept him from slipping into a flashback. He’s been doing it on purpose, I realise in horror – the times he’s arched his back have been him grinding his prosthetic into the matrass, chafing and twisting until he’s made himself bleed.

I react before I can think about what I’m doing, furiously flinging myself across the bed at him and rolling him over onto his back so he looks straight at my face. His expression is almost comically surprised. “No,” I hiss at him, angry and heartbroken all at once. “You don’t get to do that. I won’t allow it. Take it off, or I will do it.”

“Katniss – ”

“ _No_.”

I win the stare-off, and help keep him upright while he fumbles clumsily with his artificial leg. This is the first time I’m allowed to watch – although I suppose ‘allow’ is a bit of a strong word. He’s tight-lipped and silent and tense beside me, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s miserable and in pain, if he’s embarrassed or if he’s angry I’ve forced his hand. He bandages it more adeptly than I thought he would, and I realise with another jolt he’s probably done the same motions many times before. I just wasn’t around to see it. I just wasn’t there for him.

He collapses back onto the pillows coughing, and I cover him up with the blankets as originally intended. Hesitantly, biting my raw lip, I slip back down beside him and slowly inch closer. He sighs and I freeze, insides clenching.

“You’re going to get sick. Or hurt,” he mumbles bleakly.

“That’s all?” I ask.

He looks at me, exhausted and sweating and bewildered. I don’t elaborate; I just pull him closer and tuck him close. For the rest of the night I doze, feed him pills and remedy and water, whisper nonsense things to him when fever dreams and nightmares try and pull him far away and remind myself over and over that this isn’t the cave, it isn’t as bad, it isn’t…

I wake up to find him gone and swear at myself for being stupid enough to let him out of my sight _again_. I trip myself with the blankets as I scramble out of bed, fighting off intense vertigo as sleeplessness and hunger catch up to me. His leg isn’t where he left it beside the bed. But the room is tidier than it was yesterday; even my discarded jacket has been hung up. And, when I barrel into the hallway, I find the remains of the closet door have been cleared away and the little splinters of wood have been removed. I take the stairs two at a time, going instinctively to the kitchen first.

He’s _baking_.

Peeta’s dragged a chair over and stacked books and boxes on it until it’s high enough for him to sit on and work at the counter at the same time. And he’s wrapped a scarf around his nose and mouth in an attempt to keep from infecting the bread. A part of me admires his dedication to the people of twelve and the creative way he’s found to keep himself upright long enough he can bake, shaking hands and all. The other part of me – the furious part – wins over the admiration.

“ _What_ are you doing?” I snap at him, and he almost slips off the chair he spins to face me so quickly.

When he sees it’s me, his tired eyes crinkle a bit at the corners. I assume his usual smile is hidden by the ridiculous scarf mask. “Morning,” he greets, instead of answering my question. “Are you hungry? I didn’t know how long you’d sleep, so I – ”

“ _Peeta_.” I stalk toward him, scowling heavily. “You’re supposed to be upstairs in _bed_.”

“I’m much better, though.” He keeps perfectly still as I lift my hand to his forehead. He’s a little warm, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of yesterday. “What’s the verdict, Doctor Everdeen?”

I scowl even heavier at him. “You _know_ I’m not a healer.”

His gaze turns very gentle. “Could have fooled me,” he murmurs softly. “More than once.” His gaze shifts away and he fiddles with the bits of dough sticking to his fingers. “Katniss, I… about yesterday… I’m so sorry. I –”

I shake my head and cut him off, instinctively reaching to grip his elbow. “I’ve seen people do and say worse when delirious.” He shakes his head right back, still not meeting my eyes, looking ashamed. And very pale. “If I say I don’t forgive you” – he looks at me in horrified alarm – “will you get back into bed and _rest_ as penance?”

Peeta laughs shakily and then coughs a little. “But the bread – ”

“This is District Twelve. We have gone through worse than not having freshly baked bread every day.” I survey the counter before us and then look back at Peeta’s shaking form. I sigh. “Tell me how to help. I’ll help you finish this batch and I’ll call somebody to do the deliveries and you’ll go upstairs and sleep. Deal?”

He eyes me for a few moments, then his shoulders sag and he nods. He must be aware, by now, that he’s already overdone it for the day. He knows I’m right and he needs to sleep. And as stubborn as Peeta is, especially when there are people he cares about involved, he’s not above common practicality. So I wash my hands and roll up my sleeves and let Peeta direct me. Mostly I just do the cleaning and the washing up and help him carry trays to and from the oven because he’s still too weak to lift even them by himself. He grows paler and quieter by the moment, and even I can feel exhaustion eating up the energy I thought I had in huge gulps. Peeta insists I eat, and I insist the same right back at him, hydrating and medicating him while I’m at it.

When the last of the loaves are in the oven – he still makes batches of dough in quantities meant for bakeries and not home cooking – I call Rory Hawthorne. It takes promises of cupcakes once Peeta is better, but Rory agrees to deliver the bread for Peeta this morning. I return to the kitchen in time to see that Peeta isn’t so much limping his way across the floor as half-falling. Instinct has me darting forward to meet him, holding him steady as he wavers. His grip on the countertop is white-knuckled, and his breathing sounds harsh enough that I let go with one hand to pull the scarf away from his nose and mouth. As he loses my support he sways dangerously, and then lets out a sound similar to the kitten-yowls Buttercup made when I dug the thorn from his paw.

Peeta’s jaw is clenched so tightly mine aches just looking at it, and it’s clear he’s not going to be able to remain upright for much longer. Silently I slip beneath his arm, pulling most of his weight onto me. I’ve forgotten how heavy he is; my knees buckle as he lands squarely on me, and it takes him yanking us both sideways to lean against the counter to stop us both ending up in a heap on the floor. I feel my face flushing in embarrassment, but this time I pull a little gentler and receive less of his weight on me.  Still without speaking, I nudge us towards the door of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, in a tone that suggests another apology.

I don’t know how to answer, so I don’t. And by the time we reach the stairs I’m not sure there’s much he has to thank me for; even with my help he’s barely upright, grunting in pain with every step and about one harsh exhale from being unable to get his knees to lock together. I’m breathless and unable to take more of his weight like I want – I wish I could lift and carry him as easily as he can carry me. Seeing Peeta in exhausted pain like this is shredding pieces inside of me. I expect him to beg off the stairs, but he just sets his jaw tighter, grips the banister so hard the muscles in his arm strain, and starts hauling us both up the stairs. We have to rest twice on the journey and again once we make it to the top, him leaning against the wall and me leaning against him to keep him upright.

“Peeta…” I whisper into his chest, hearing how hard his heart is hammering.

The silence stretches, and after a while he forces himself to stand up straighter and head towards the bedroom. Just a few more steps. Just a few more – I yank on him as he stumbles, now bearing most of his weight. Just a few more… He makes as if to break away when we reach the bedroom, but I firmly steer him straight to the bed.  

We both collapse onto it; I manage to stay sitting upright, but Peeta goes down all the way. He’s sweating again, and clutching at the blankets sub-consciously. I watch him trying to ride out the wave of pain and exhaustion, battling with the same thought I’ve been chewing on for most of the morning. I suddenly feel Peeta’s fingers against mine, and without thinking I let our hands intertwine. His hand is trembling, but he grips onto me with everything he has left. And I squeeze back. This is what makes the decision for me, even though fear and doubt and logic remain, begging me to choose the other path.

 I don’t listen to them. Instead, I gently slip my hand out of Peeta’s and begin taking off the shoe from his flesh leg. It’s slower going than I want it to be because of my sleep-dumbed fingers and his very strong double knots. He feels what I’m doing and begins lethargically picking at his sweater, trying to wrestle it off of himself without moving too much and getting hopelessly stuck in the process. If my heart wasn’t beating in my throat, I’d probably find the scene slightly endearing. Finally, the shoe comes off and I toss it aside, pulling off his sock and making him squirm momentarily and mutter that it was ticklish. He’s still struggling with the sweater, face buried in the material and arms flailing sluggishly, and I know there’s not going to be a better time for me to do this.

Am I really going to do this? Why? Why did the thought appear and not leave the whole morning? I’m not a healer. I don’t like looking at my own scars, let alone other people’s. Let alone wounds. He doesn’t want me looking. I shouldn’t.

But I do. Fast, so neither of us have time to stop me, I pull up the baggy pant leg that’s covering Peeta’s artificial leg, hiking it until it’s above the seam between flesh and metal. I place both hands on the juncture and Peeta freezes as though suddenly turned to stone. He’s not even breathing, I don’t think. I don’t dare to look up and see if he’s looking at me. I don’t dare to speak, even to ask if it’s okay. I know I should probably ask for permission, but the strange desire to do this has only leant me so much courage. Quaking inside in a way I never have before, I gently reach for the grooves as I saw Peeta do last night. He found them easily and flipped them without much of a thought. I take ages to fit my fingers as they should, and more than one try to twist and push things the way they should go. I’m so terrified of hurting him. I’m so terrified he hasn’t moved an inch or said anything this whole time.

Finally, I can pull the prosthesis free. It’s so much heavier in my hands than I imagined. Still unable to look at him or breathe easily, I set the leg aside and gently unwrap the bandages. He must have changed them this morning, because these have very little blood on them. I’m honestly relieved; I don’t know what I would have done if more than a checkup on his work was needed. But… but now I’m staring at the amputation sight for the first time, long and hard, and I see both the old damage and the new. And I wonder, for the first time, what it feels like. What it _felt_ like for him to wake up alone and be told they cut off his leg. What it felt like having to learn to live with a loss and heartbreak all at once. I wonder if his mother ever picked on him because of it.  

Somehow, it’s that last thought that almost undoes me. I think I say his name, but whether it’s loud enough for him to hear is debatable. There are so many emotions flashing through my chest, and I don’t know what to do with them. I don’t know how to react. There’s only one solution that crops to mind – as ridiculous and stupid as it ever was; as ridiculous and stupid as it was running from Capitol mutts with grief and death on our heels – and without thinking I take it. The skin is slightly rough beneath my lips, but that is all that tells me I’m not just kissing his hand or his cheek.

Suddenly mortified, I re-wrap his leg, hoping I’m doing it right and wishing I’d thought to bring a new bandage with me. But that’s just the problem: I didn’t _think_. I let my hands fall into my lap and then finally can’t avoid looking at Peeta any longer. The sweater is off. His hair is wild from the struggle he had with it. He’s propped himself up on both shaking elbows so he could see me better. And when his eyes meet mine, they’re full of awe.

Not the awe of before; of a teenage boy watching his acquaintance long-time crush as she pretended she knew enough to get them out of the Games alive. Not the awe of a man duped to believe the person he loved felt the same about him. Not the awe of a man making deals to save the woman who had broken the heart he still couldn’t help but offer to her. This awe is steadier, weighted by too much knowledge of me and what I have done and what he still needs to sometimes convince himself I am not. This awe… it’s _real_. Something tugs in me. Something balloons like hot air and then settles; a tangle of things I suddenly _know_ with absolute clarity but that I don’t understand and cannot name. We stare at each other until Peeta starts coughing and breaks the moment. He sags back onto the bed and I slowly crawl to his side.

His coughing dies down and I can feel him turn to look at me. Playing for time, I slowly sink down until I’m lying on my back, and then I turn over on my side so I’m facing him. I find the words – not the perfect ones, but ones that are true. “This is what we do – we protect one another.”

Peeta closes his eyes, and then rolls onto his back, flinging his arm warm and inviting. I slip into his embrace, glad that with his cheek against my head I can no longer see him looking at me. I thought, before tonight, that we knew everything about each other – that we knew _too much._ But there is some new knowledge inside of me I don’t understand, and until I can wield it safely it could too easily hurt both of us.

So, for now all I do is hold him as he holds me. And we both sleep – no nightmares.


	2. Loss

The first time Finnick Odair comes to visit he is five years old, and I get to see Annie enthralled by the serene beauty that is the meadow.

Annie was one of the first people we told about the confession-promise I gave Peeta one unexpected night two and a half years ago; the query of _real or not real_ that finally let me admit out loud the certainty of the inevitability of loving Peeta that I knew inside my bones. She was one of the first we told when Peeta asked me another significant question a year and a half ago. But she was still unable to make our resulting toasting ceremony – instead, she gave us a surprise visit that turned out to be the best one-year-anniversary gift Peeta and I received.  

There’s a kind of joy you can’t really explain that comes from seeing somebody again for the first time in a while and noticing the parts that were broken before have been slowly inhabited by hardy plants and flowers. The cracks are still there, of course, but instead of oozing pain and death they bring forth shoots that hold promises. Sometimes, if you know when to look and what to look for, you can see flowers blooming.  I look at her and her son and notice she is calmer and steadier; daydreaming when she looks off into the distance instead of losing her mind. I see the shoots of sunflowers peeping in her manners and her stories and her patience with energetic Finn, and something that was still heavy in my soul eases a little. She looks at Peeta cupping my face with his hands, laughing, close to me and full of the exact opposite of hate and fear, and her smile is radiant for us and the dandelions she sees growing in my cracks.

There’s also a kind of joy that comes from company that is very easy to be around. Annie and Finn slipped into our lives without much fuss, and after nearly a week of them being here it’s hard to remember we haven’t always lived this way.  Annie and I talk about nonsense – Haymitch’s geese, which turns to talk about water fowl, which turns to talk about District Four – while Peeta teaches Finn the basics of baking. There is more flour on the boy and the floor than in the dough, but neither male seems to mind this fact at all. The food goes in the oven, but it doesn’t take a hunter’s gaze to notice that Finn is staring less at the buns and more at my husband. The little glances go on as Finn helps Peeta to clean up some of the mess. But patience in a five-year-old doesn’t last long.

“Is it true you have a custom-made robot leg?”

Annie claps her hands over her mouth, a muffled noise of embarrassed shock escaping. Her wide eyes flicker from me to Peeta in bewildered apology. I cannot move or breathe, unsure of how to handle it. Some days – few and far between, but still days that exist – Peeta won’t even let _me_ touch his leg. Peeta blinks, slack-jawed, at Finn for a moment. And then he throws his head back and laughs.

“Well, it’s not really _custom_. But, yeah, one of them isn’t… real.”

Finn gives his mother a glance before asking, in a tone of hushed awe, “Can I… see it? Please,” he adds on hastily.

Peeta shoots a glance at Annie as well, a request for permission shining under the bemusement on his face. She buries her face in her hands and hums to herself, but it doesn’t seem to any of us like a refusal. So Peeta steadies himself on the counter and pulls up his pants leg as high as he can, showing off his prosthetic. He jerks back a little, instinctively, when Finn gets down on his hands and knees for a closer look.

“That,” Finn says after a while, with wide, serious, shining eyes, “is the amazing-est thing I’ve ever, ever seen anybody have.”

The second time Finnick Odair visits us, he’s eight and Annie calls ahead to almost-explain why he is coming but she is staying behind.

“I’ve told him all I can. You have the memory book. And… he wants to hear it from you.”

We assume he’s started really asking about his father, and when Finn steps off the train he brings the heaviness of The Past with him like an extra suitcase. I stiffen and feel Peeta do the same, and we share a long glance before we step forward and tackle this obstacle together.

Finn is shifty and nervous and too quiet and not looking anywhere, and even Peeta can’t gently coax him to talk. Finally, seated at our kitchen table with untouched dinner, he just blurts it out. “In school… they’ve… we’ve started learning about the Hunger Games.”

It’s like all the air has gone out of the room. I want to look at Peeta, but I’m frozen, choking on the remembered taste of ash and blood. Finn continues to ramble about just wanting to hear things from us. He wants to know the truth, not what the school tells him. He wants to understand why his mom is the way she is, and why there’s a distorted echo where his father should be standing alive. I don’t hear most of it, but Peeta steps forward to handle the situation, and his hands on my shoulders bring me back and remind me what I have and all I fought to get it.

So we get out the memory book, and we take it in turns talking. There’s no plan and no real structure; one of us just vomits out the words until they cannot any more and when that happens the other one takes over. We skip things, come back to others, insert moments that have nothing to do with what we are describing just because we’re desperate for some air. He is eight years old, so we tell him only what is absolutely necessary. Peeta is the one to explain my role in Finnick’s ghost around us, and I am the one to explain Peeta’s role. Peeta is too kind to me in his explanation, and I can tell by his posture that he thinks I was making too many excuses for him. We’ll find a way to meet each other in the middle about it all – somehow, unbelievably – when we talk later, like we always do.

Despite trying to soften the blow we do not lie, and there are moments when Finn or Peeta or I or a combination of us are crying hard enough to put a pause to the explanations or the answers to Finn’s questions.  We reach our close, and there is silence in which nobody moves. I am the one to suggest an early bedtime, and Finn nods and lets me take him up to the guest bedroom that’s usually stuffed full of Peeta’s art things to put the memory book away as I force myself to once again remember how to tuck a heart-exhausted little person into bed for sweet dreams. He tries to say something before he goes to sleep but doesn’t manage. And I wonder when we’ll get it right – when this world will no longer torture children who are too young.

I feel heavy and exhausted and old as I make my way back downstairs, feeling numbness tugging so hard at my chest that it’s almost a chore to remember why I need to keep going. I hesitate on the last step, every instinct telling me to go out the front door and just keep walking until I cannot even crawl another step. I’ll stay where exhaustion drops me and I won’t have to care any more. At the very least, there’s an empty house next door that once was mine, and a bedroom I can barricade myself into. There’s a forest full of trees. There’s a lake with a deep enough bottom. There’s –

There’s no sound coming from the kitchen. I’m not sure what makes me aware of the silence, but whatever instinct or coincidence or other tell it is has me snapping right out of the spiral of lostness that the evening had slowly but surely pulled me into. My husband is many things, but quiet is certainly not one of them. The absence of all noise, therefore, makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I hold my breath and strain to listen; catch the faint sounds of the world outside but no sense that Peeta is downstairs with me. Still, I call Peeta’s name cautiously. There’s no answer.

I tread forward on cautious feet, peeking around the door and immediately looking toward the kitchen chairs where he usually stands and holds on for dear life. The whole kitchen is empty, however. I catch sight of the open back door, swinging ever so slightly in the evening breeze, and panic really starts to set in. There’s a stun weapon hidden on the top shelf in the hallway; Peeta had it sent over from the Capitol, and told me very seriously to use it on him if I had to. I haven’t had to yet, and I refuse to let tonight be the first time. Instead, I move armed with nothing but my determination and my heartbreak out the door, instinctively moving to a hunter’s walk as I do. Quickly, but with no sound so I won’t startle him. With purpose, but still ready to defend myself if I have to.

I am afraid I’ll have to walk far in the darkness to find him, but he’s right outside, illuminated in the light from the open kitchen door. He’s on the last step that leads from our house to the soft earth of the back yard, curled up and clutching at himself and, from what I can see, more than half gone from what is real.

“Peeta,” I say, quietly, trying not to let my emotions choke me. “Peeta, it’s Katniss. Whatever you’re remembering isn’t real, Peeta. The Games are over. The war is over. You’re – ”

“You killed them!” Peeta roars at me, so sudden and so loud that I climb back up one of the stairs I’d just slowly descended. He looks at me with a hatred I haven’t seen in so long, and something inside of me crumbles at the sight. And I freeze. Instead of using that moment to reach him, I freeze under the guilt that what he is saying is true. “You made them think that they were your friends and then you led them to die! You called all those mutts in the underground and they came because _you’re one of them_. And then they – ” He cuts himself off, smashing his face into his hands, curling up tighter, gripping his hair with an iron grip. And I am still frozen. “You… you… you…” Peeta’s panting and shaking and clawing at himself, a mad fighting for his own limbs as he both tries to reach me and to stop himself from going near me. “You deserve to hurt, too! You can’t be allowed to –”

It seems, for a moment, the desire to kill me has won out. Peeta unfolds and reaches for me as he speaks, his eyes fighting hard to be fully black and his entire body is vibrating. But as soon as he’s half turned towards me, poised to lunge at where I’m standing staring at him, he jerks back like he’s physically been grabbed and held back. And then, with a noise I don’t know how to describe, he starts hitting his head against the side of the step behind him. Hard.

That’s more than enough to finally shock me out of the deep hole in my chest. With a gasp that isn’t quite his name I lunge toward him, not caring about anything but the need to stop him from slamming his head into the stair. But I’m too late; with one particularly vicious whack, Peeta suddenly slumps. I reach him useless, my hands shaking as I turn his slack head and watch the blood start to pool along his temple and then trickle down his cheek. There’s so much of it; in the time it takes me to rip off my shirt and bundle it so I can press it against the wound the blood has become a near torrent. Half of Peeta’s face seems to be coated in it. I’m sure I’m about to throw up. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This can’t be –

“What the _hell_ is going on out here?”

Haymitch. Haymitch must have heard the commotion because he’s stumbling out of his house glowering and swearing under his breath.

“ _Haymitch_.”

My voice sounds slightly hysterical even to my own ears, and it makes him start forward almost automatically, hurrying over to us in the gloom. Catching sight of Peeta makes his swearwords come faster and louder. He tries moving me aside gently but I don’t budge. If I don’t keep my shirt on Peeta’s wound he might bleed out. He might get blood poisoning. He might get brain damage. He might never wake up. He might never stop bleeding. He might –

Haymitch shoves me aside and I land roughly, staring numbly at the dried blood smeared across Peeta’s face and the fresh blood that oozes happily to join it. I give in to the rising nausea, clutching the stair railing as I vomit onto the grass. I barely ate dinner; there’s not much to bring up. But I dry heave for long enough that when I look up, dizzy and cold and feeling gutted, Haymitch is using my shirt to calmly dab at Peeta’s head.

“Very nice, Sweetheart. Ten out of ten for sound effects. Only seven for your projection and the volume of puke. You should really come and get lessons from me.” I call him a very rude word in a weak, cracked voice, still clinging to the stair railing. Peeta’s head is bleeding. I can’t get the replay of the sight of him smacking his head against the stair over and over out of my head. Haymitch finally glances at me. “It looks a lot worse than it is, Katniss,” he tells me, serious now. “You _know_ head wounds bleed more than any other. Look, he’s going to be fine. Doesn’t even need stitches.”

I have to crawl to reach Peeta because my legs aren’t working correctly. With a hand shaking all the way up to my shoulder, I try and feel for a pulse. Haymitch sighs impatiently at me. He stands up and drags Peeta with him with a grunt, starting to drag him very unsteadily back to the house. The sudden purpose – the sudden appearance of a way to _do something_ – helps me to break through the leftover horror and nausea and rise to my feet to help Haymitch with Peeta. Both of us are unsteady, and it takes a lot of awkward manoeuvring and swearing and stops to get Peeta all the way up the stairs to our room. I think I see the guest bedroom door close quickly as we approach, but I can’t be sure.

Haymitch leans against the bed, watching as I clean and bandage Peeta’s head. It takes a long time because my hands are still shaking. It hit me halfway up the stairs that Peeta could have hurt his brain even more with his actions tonight. It hit me that he could have forgotten things, or that the flashbacks might be worse, or that he might slip further away from me again – maybe even as far as he was when we were in District Thirteen. I can’t tell which possible horror hurts me more.

“He’s got a thick skull. It was necessary for him to fall in love with you.” I shoot Haymitch a glare. He stares mostly steadily back. “You should have used the stun gun, Sweetheart.”

“I don’t need to knock him out,” I snap at Haymitch viciously. ”I _know_ how to talk him down from an episode, Haymitch. _Without_ having to attack him.”

“He bought that weapon,” Haymitch snaps back, “so that when the flashbacks take a turn for the nasty again _like they did tonight_ you have a way to safely put him out until the episode passes. Do you understand me? He needs to know he’ll be knocked out when he gets the urge to once again talk shit about and try and murder his _wife_.”

“I – ” But the vicious retaliation dies on my tongue as the implications Haymitch is making hits home. He’s staring at me intensely, willing me to _understand_. And, as so often with Haymitch, I _do_ understand. Peeta hitting his head against the stairs wasn’t just an involuntary tic from the episode. It wasn’t mad instinct or an unfortunate side-effect of his head trying to split him in two. “He did this on purpose,” I whisper in horror, the memory of his head smashing against the stairs with brutal force overwhelming me again. “He _did this_ so that he’d…”

“I’m going back to my booze,” Haymitch announces, but his tone is almost gentle. “Next time, use the damn stun weapon.”

I sag next to Peeta on the bed, too drained in too many ways to move. Thoughts swirl and circle in my head, chasing each other and themselves. I’m exhausted to the point of near-numbness, but I don’t dare sleep in case Peeta wakes up and has another flashback. Or in case my inexperience made me miss some sign that tells me he’s very seriously hurt. I’m still in my clothes, slumped in a position that became painful an hour ago, when he stirs. His low moan of pain makes me wince in sympathy. And then I become very, very angry. So angry that the words get stuck in my throat, burning hot and tangled together. He opens his eyes slowly, squinting against the muted light in the room, and then freezes when he sees me. I’m sure I must look livid; I feel mad enough to shoot something.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” I hiss at him.

He sighs and closes his eyes. “I was going to hurt you.” He pauses. “Katniss, I’m so… I’m so sorry…”

“I don’t want you to apologise for that!” I snap. “I don’t care if sometimes you still have to work through the Capitol _torturing you for months_. I do, however, damn well care about you trying to _help_ them even though Snow’s been dead for _years_.” He looks at me blankly and I throw my hands up before curling them into frustrated fists in the air. “Giving yourself more brain injuries by _bashing your head against the stone stairs_ is not going to help anything at all!” I yell at him. “It’s _stupid_! It’s stupid and you could have seriously hurt yourself. You could have put yourself in a coma! You could have needed surgery! You could have stopped breathing!”

“But I couldn’t have reached over and tried to strangle you,” Peeta replies calmly. His voice and his gaze are steely with resolve.

“Or maybe you would have!” I yell. “Maybe rattling your brain around some more would have made the flashbacks worse, and you would never have come back from that episode ever again!”

I regret my words as soon as his face loses whatever colour it has left in it. The horror and fear in his expression is as sharp as a sword and deep enough to cut through every other emotion. He tries to draw away from me when I reach for him but I don’t let him, because I _know_ when he really doesn’t want to be touched and when he’s pulling away out of guilt.

“Peeta,” I whisper to him, holding him close and trying not to think about how I could have so easily not have had this tonight. “You have to promise you won’t ever do that again. Please.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, and I try and pull him even tighter. “But I’d… I’d much rather knock myself out a thousand times than hurt you. You can understand that, right?”

I gently touch the bandaged wound, and he winces. It must be hurting. His eyes are also struggling to focus a little, and I wonder how dizzy and sore he’s feeling. I sigh. “You weren’t really going to hurt me.”

He stiffens. “You don’t know that,” he says, half angry and half self-loathing. “I _could_ have hurt you. And I can’t… I can’t…” I stroke his hair gently as he breathes deeply, head tucked into my shoulder. “Please,” he says softly. “Please knock me out when I get like that. Katniss, I…”

I bite my lip, hesitating to promise something I detest. I don’t want to hurt him. I especially don’t want to electrocute him until he’s unconscious, like a sick echo of what the Capitol did to him in the first place, even though deeper animalistic instincts tell me it’s the right thing to do when somebody is coming for my throat. But tonight has shown me how much Peeta doubts what I know to be true – that he will never seriously hurt me. That I can always help him bring himself back. That he’s fought this war and has won, whatever the lingering small battles may want him to believe.

“I…” There’s a muffled crashing from downstairs, and I sit up and listen. “Finn,” I mutter, saved from having to answer Peeta for the moment. We’ll bring this up again, and soon – either he’ll need me to promise I’ll do whatever I can to stop his very worst nightmare coming true no matter what that means for his health, or I’ll need him to promise I’ll never have to think I’m watching my husband beat himself to death in front of my eyes. “I’ll go check on him.”

“I’ll come too.”

But Peeta can barely sit up without swaying and going green. When he makes an attempt to stand he just ends up doubled over his knees, gasping slightly and cradling his head in his hands. I walk around the bed to reach for him and he stubbornly attempts to get to his feet once more. He manages to be upright for all of three seconds before his knees buckle. Gently but firmly, I push him back down onto the bed. I don’t have to say anything; he knows. But I kiss him, first on the lips and then on the bandages, before I head downstairs.

I find nothing out of place in the kitchen when I arrive downstairs; Finn must have picked up whatever he dropped or knocked over. The back door is shut, but I don’t know if that was Haymitch or Finn. Finn is standing at our sink, watching the water swirl down the drain. I lean against the doorjam and watch him be transfixed by the whirlpool of water. After a few moments, he switches the water off. I don’t know what he came downstairs for, and although he turns to look at me he doesn’t say anything for a long time.

 “I overheard some of the things… with Uncle Peeta,” he says, quietly. “Mom told me… she told me some things. Said she’d tell me some more when I was older, if I wanted to know. Not right now.”

“It’s not something you should ever have to deal with.” It’s not something _Peeta_ should have to deal with. “Come on. Let’s get you back into bed. Everything is okay, I promise.”

He nods, and I wonder if there is still enough innocence in him to believe me. He doesn’t look scared as we head up the stairs, though. He doesn’t even look lost or overly sad. He just looks tired, and a little contemplative, and a little like he’s shouldering a whole lot more than when he arrived on the train.

“Aunt Katniss?” The title makes something in me twist; I should have been hearing it from the mouths of children who came from the best of the three Everdeen girls. It’s therefore almost fitting that Finn’s following question is, “What… what was the worst thing? The worst thing to lose?”

It still hurts to say her name. But I say it out loud anyway. For Finnick’s sake. “Prim.”

He nods slowly and snuggles under the blankets. I’m at the door when he says, softly, “I get it, but I think I agree with what Uncle Peeta said more.” I’m not sure I’m supposed to hear the confession, so I just close the door slightly behind me and head back to our room.

Peeta is more than mostly asleep when I reach him, so I gently remove his prosthetic and then pull the blankets up over him. I take my time getting ready for bed, because the mundane ritual keeps me thinking of the simple things of here and now. But eventually I slip into bed beside him, and it doesn’t take long for things to start clawing at my thoughts. I pick the most pressing curiosity; the thing that I cannot let go instead of the things that won’t let go of me.

 “Peeta? Peeta.”

“Hmm?”

“What did you tell Finn? When he asked… what was the worst thing you lost during the… the Games and the war?”

There’s a long pause. The dark stretches. But Peeta is warm when he finally, sleepily pulls me closer. “Myself.”

I ache so badly for him that I want to kiss him all over and tell him he got himself _back_. But that’s a lie, and I know that while he’ll indulge me he won’t believe me. Ironically, Peeta’s _always_ understood that inevitable consequence of the Games on a much deeper level than I have. Under the covers, I slip my hand into his. I just need to be sure, in this moment, that if one of us falters in the resolve to take another step forward, the other will be there to gently pull them along, making sure nobody gets lost and nobody gets left behind ever again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm definitely not one for naming unnamed characters. But by this point I have read so much fanfic that Annie and Finnick's son is called Finnick, in my head. Just like Peeta's middle brother was called Rye.


	3. Guilt

It is one of the coldest winters we’ve had in a long time, complete with bitter, howling winds that manage to stick their icy fingers even in the most insulated houses. It makes me want nothing more than to stay in bed, wrapped in blankets and the body heat of my husband, eyes closed and pretending with the darkness outside that morning hasn’t actually come yet.

But that’s a luxury I cannot afford. School has been cancelled for three days now, and my housebound children will soon be getting very restless despite the freakishly early hour and the bitter cold that exists outside of bed. And this is the sort of cold that makes my scars and the foot I hurt leaping over the electric fence ache and burn. Which means that Peeta will be in a lot more pain than usual, too.

I somehow manage to coax myself out of bed, getting dressed as fast as I can to try and decrease how much time I need to spend without several layers between me and the outside air. Despite this, I still find two wide-awake faces waiting for me in my son’s room, his toys spread out all around them. I tell the girl to dress herself while I help the boy, and then do for her what she still has trouble with. Finally, bundled up, we head downstairs. Four trusting eyes look at me as we wonder what to do with ourselves to pass the time before breakfast. They have so much energy – especially my son – that after a while I find myself devising an indoor obstacle course that takes them over couches and under chairs, hopping from one pillow to another, leopard crawling across carpets and even climbing from the stair rails.

It strikes me, so suddenly I actually sit down in horror, that I’ve almost as good as constructed a Hunger Games arena for my children, who are giggling and egging each other on across the pillow stepping stones. I put my head in my shaking hands, disgusted at myself and once again worrying at the old, whispering fears that I should never have cursed two innocents by becoming a mother. What was I thinking? They are both so young…

Instinct, or something like it born of many years of proximity, makes me glance to the doorway to the sitting room. Peeta is leaning against the doorframe, watching our children and grinning, widely. He catches me watching and laughs in that proud, bemused parent way, not noticing anything amiss with me. Not noticing anything amiss with the scene, either. I go to him at once and bury my face into his chest, and he holds on tighter when he realises all is not well.

“Katniss? Love, what’s wrong?” I don’t know how, but I manage to mumble an approximant example into his chest. And Peeta, although he tries very hard not to, laughs at me. And then apologises by kissing my hair and every bit of my face he can get to. “It’s just like hopscotch. Or them playing on the jungle gym. I promise; it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re such a great mom.” I hadn’t told him that my mind had flittered to those fears, but I feel myself relaxing as he soothes them away. “I love you,” he says, before kissing me properly. “And I’m going to go and make us all breakfast. Try not to sign them up for the military while I’m gone.”

I shoot Peeta one of my best scowls, but the retort I’m ready to throw at him gets stuck in my throat when I see how badly he’s limping. I stare after him as he disappears, torn between following him and staying to keep an eye on the kids who are still bouncing from the furniture, giggling uproariously. The kids win out, but barely just, and although my gaze stays keenly on them, my ears are strained towards the kitchen, pricked for any sound of distress from Peeta. I wonder, briefly, if corralling the children not helping with breakfast would make things easier, then quickly rule it out –having two little bodies and over-eager hands to monitor is not the way to go this particular morning, even if at other times the sticky journey is part of the fun.

Does breakfast usually take this long? It seems as though Peeta has been in there for an age. And the kitchen is large and draughty, eve with the appliances letting off heat. I bite my lip and deliberate, and a moment before calling for a few moments of quiet safe sitting so I can go and check on Peeta he calls that breakfast is ready.

"Wash your hands, first!" I call, and it changes the trajectory of the eagerly scrambling bodies.

The task I have set them won't take long, but it's enough time for me to check on Peeta without him having to put on a brave face for the kids. He's leaning against the counter and holding onto the kitchen chair with a white-knucled grip, lopsided as he puts all his weight on his flesh leg. The scene is familiar enough for other reasons that I approach with caution, saying his name gently to get his attention. He looks at me with blue eyes and a smile that is tight with pain, and I slip close to him and rub at his thigh gently. He hums in thanks and kisses my forehead, letting go of the chair in favour of holding me close.

"You should take it off," I murmur at him.

"It's kinda hard to bake one-legged," he counters, and I look at him incredulously.

“You're still going to the bakery?" He nods and I sigh. Some say I'm the stubborn one in our relationship. "Then call extra people to give you a hand."

"Nah. I've still got both of those intact." I glare at him and he kisses me again. "I can't expect people to go out in that weather to come and bake."

"That's good logic. You should follow it."

The children clatter in, both vying for their father's attention, and I sigh and allow Peeta to be derailed. I don't let him do more than sit down on the chair he'd been gripping, though; the children set the table and I bring breakfast-laden plates to all. As we eat and discuss the strange things children find extremely important, I continue to massage Peeta's thigh. His shoulders relax visibly as the massage continues, and I feel some of the worried lump inside of me disappear.

I set the girl and boy the task of clearing the table as well, instructing her to carry the plates and him to carry the cutlery. I firmly press down on Peeta’s shoulder as he makes to rise, but my admonishment only keeps him in place for a little while before he rises and starts to help clean up. I sigh at him. He grins guiltily at me and tries to pretend he's not limping heavily. Our daughter continues to talk about her funny friends at school, and I'm amused enough by her stories that I don't notice our son has managed to climb onto the counter until he's standing right on the edge.

"Papa! Catch me!"

My heart stops as he launches himself off the counter, instincts surging me forward even though I know I'll never be able to reach him in time. Peeta drops the pan he's been carrying and lunges for our son, scooping him close instinctively. The force of impact makes Peeta stagger backwards, and as soon as he puts full weight on his artificial leg he staggers back another step. This time, putting weight on the prosthetic causes it to simply fold beneath him, and both my husband and my son land on the floor with a heavy thud. Our daughter squeals slightly and claps her hands over her mouth, and I immediately kneel beside the pile. Our son appears unharmed but shocked, looking around with wide eyes and obviously deciding if he should start wailing or not.

“Look how strong you’ve gotten, bud – knocked us both right over!” Peeta says, forcing a laugh. His face has gone very, very white, and he’s instinctively trying to grab at the floor for some sort of purchase to ride out his agony. I take his hand, and his grip is almost bruising. “Next time, you’ve _got_ to give more warning, okay? Or you’ll get hurt. Do you promise?”

Our son nods, still looking slightly afraid. Our daughter is still frozen with her hands over her mouth, watching Peeta with huge eyes.

“Okay. Breakfast is over, so it’s time to go and clean up the toys you were playing with this morning. _Both_ of you need to help, because _both_ of you played with them. I’m going to count to thirty and then come and check. If it’s all clean you can have the muffins Papa brought home from work yesterday. Ready, steady, go! One! Two! Three! Four!”

They hesitate for a few more seconds but then run out the door. I keep counting until they’re done thudding up the stairs, as Peeta tries to curl into a more comfortable position beside me. His breathing is harsh, his grip still incredibly strong, and when I look to him it’s once again to first check his face. He’s in a lot of pain, but he’s still with me. I don’t bother asking him what’s wrong, but instead go straight for the leg of his pants. I’ve rolled it up halfway when I realise it would have been easier and less painful to take off his pants entirely. I hesitate, wondering if I should abandon my current efforts, and Peeta’s shaking hands take over the job until the fabric is rolled up over the place flesh and prosthetic meet. It’s an angry, swollen red, and one of the connecting sensors has twisted entirely, biting into Peeta’s skin.

I murmur his name in sympathy, steel myself against the sight that makes lifelong disgust and years of empathy born from love rise up like bile and begin gently working off his leg. Peeta groans in pain almost as soon as I start, letting his head thud back and grinding his tightly fisted hands into the floor. I manage to get the leg off, but I’ve drawn blood by doing so. This is the first time his leg has bled since all those years ago, back before we’d even started kissing again. It makes me stare for a while, then snap to my senses and hurry to find some bandages from the nearest source. With two kids, a mother who hunts and a father who bakes, we’ve learned to have multiple stashes of basic medical supplies.

I start doctoring his leg and he tenses even further, body trembling. “Katniss,” he says, suddenly, and there’s something about the tone that makes me realise at once that third time’s the charm.

He tries to push me away when I pull him up so I can cradle him in my lap, but he’s also fighting the action and so all I get is a little roughly shoved. He tucks his hands under his armpits, scared of what they’ll do if they start to reach for me. I press kisses against his forehead.

“Not real, Peeta. It’s not real. You’re safe. You’re just in pain because our son is far too much like me, I’m afraid. He’s upstairs with his sister, and I think they’re actually cleaning up. We just had a great breakfast together, which you cooked despite your leg bothering you.” Peeta shudders hard three times, but then his shaking starts to decrease. Usually I tell him a story from our life together; something that will make newer memories replace the old ones the Capitol shoved into his head. I search about desperately, and my eyes land on the oven that is slowly cooling. “Do you remember when you first got the bakery built? We went in there and you were testing out the oven. And we both sat in front of it and I was so worried for a second you were about to ask to make toast with me. We’d only kissed a few times by that point and although I knew I loved you marriage was… It was still so big and scary to me, then. And you just laughed at me and said, ‘Katniss, I’m a baker. You decide you want toast one day and I can make you bread to toast in under an hour. But until then I am more than content just making bread’. You nearly fell over the day I brought you that bread Johanna and I spent the _whole day_ baking and asked you to toast it with me. I think you may have stopped breathing for a little while.”

“I spent that whole afternoon worried you and Jo were destroying the bakery and that’s why you wouldn’t let me in,” Peeta mutters. His voice is exhausted, but when I glance down at him he’s smiling very softly. “Kicked out of my own store.” He nuzzles closer, suddenly boneless in my arms. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise for anything. Well. Instead of thinking its somehow heroic to cause yourself pain and go out in a blizzard to bake bread nobody is going to walk out there to buy today.”

He chuckles tiredly, but before I go on there’s suddenly muffled yelling from upstairs. I give a long sigh and Peeta pulls himself off of me. “Go on. I’ll be okay.”

“I haven’t even finished bandaging it,” I mutter distractedly, making my way upstairs. The shouting has been joined by our son crying loudly by the time I make it to the room, and I find them a foot apart, faces red as they square off. “What is going on?” I demand sternly, and both of them jump.

“She’s yelling at me!” our son sobs. “Being mean!”

I turn to our daughter but she just ducks her face and flees from the room, slipping into her own so she can get away from the confrontation. She’s far too much like her mother. Taking another deep breath I kneel before my sniffling son and help mop up the tears and snot. “What’s going on?”

“Sh-sh-she said I hurt Papa! She said I was… was _bad_ and made Papa huge sore.” His lip trembles as he watches me for the clarification that his sister had been lying.

I bite my lip, and make my voice as gentle as possible. “You _did_ hurt Papa,” I tell him. His face goes startled and then twists again. “But everybody makes mistakes. Did you mean to hurt Papa?”

“No!” he warbles.

“Then if you say sorry, you’ll be forgiven. Just make sure you don’t jump off things at _anybody_. Unless they tell you it’s okay. Okay?” He wipes his nose on his sleeve and nods. “Now finish cleaning up, and then we’ll go downstairs and say sorry to Papa together, okay?”

He does as he’s told, more subdued than usual but slowly perking up. I leave him be and head to the second bedroom, knowing this would be trickier. Our daughter is a wise soul, and she feels everything so much deeper than our son. She’s far too much like her father.

I find her curled up on her bed, tear tracks visible down her face. I sit beside her on the bed and stroke her hair for a little while. “You know yelling at your brother is not nice at all.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Why did you yell?”

She hiccoughs a little, fresh tears squeezing from her eyes. “I was _mad_.”

“Because your brother hurt Papa accidentally?” To my surprise, she shakes her head.  “Then why? Tell me, little bird.”

Her face screws up. “I’m supposed to help mind Papa on bad days,” she cries. “And I didn’t! I let him get hurt!”

I pull her close and hug her tight, fierce love and pride burning in my chest as I let her cry into me. “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault at all. It was an accident. Did you help take the plates to be washed? Did you?” She nods hesitantly. “Well, then you helped mind Papa’s leg today,” I tell her, firmly. “Just like you do every day. Papa and I are so proud of you and all you do. You do a _great_ job. Sometimes things happen even when you try really hard. It doesn’t mean you’re not good. And Papa and I will always, always, always love you. No matter _what_ you do.” It was one of the reasons I was so terrified when I was pregnant with them – the realisation that these people could start the next war and there would still be a large part of me who loved them unconditionally. “Will you still help me mind Papa for the rest of today?”

She pulls away, sniffing and nodding seriously, and I wipe her face with my sleeve. Our son cautiously climbs onto the bed, watching me and his sister, and I pull him close, too, and kiss his head.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” the girl tells her brother.

“It’s okay,” he replies, and they both cling to each other tightly for a moment.

“Room clean?” The boy nods. “Good! Let’s go get those muffins and see what Papa wants to do for the rest of the day. I don’t think he’s going to work.”

That cheers them both up immensely, and we all trail downstairs hand in hand. Peeta is still in the kitchen, having hauled himself onto a kitchen chair and no further. He forgives our son’s apology with lots of kisses, and although he gives me a raised eyebrow when our kids tell him I said he’s not going to the bakery today he doesn’t refute the statement.

We end up with tea and day-old muffins in the sitting room, all drawing pictures. I was not allowed the dignity of sitting out of the activity, and I am growing more and more frustrated by my blobby, lopsided figures the more they appear on the page. The only one whose drawing is less skilled is our son, and he’s still at the stage where drawing scribbles and lines makes him incredibly proud. I catch Peeta laughing at my dark glare at my paper, and I pull an immature face at him.

“Papa?” the boy asks suddenly.

“Yes?”

“Why don’t we have any floatos of us?”

“Photos,” our daughter corrects automatically, tongue out as she concentrates on colouring in the lines.

Peeta and I glance at each other. The real reason is because both of us hate cameras of any sort, even now. Enough that we don’t want anybody photographing us, no matter what the event or the intention. But we can’t explain that to our children; not yet.

“That’s easy,” Peeta says into the heavy pause. “It’s because your mom scowls so darkly she breaks all the cameras before they can take a picture.”

The kids squeal with laughter and I turn abovementioned scowl on my husband, who grins at me completely unrepentantly. He flips around his paper and I see the breath-taking portraits he’s been sketching of our family as we worked; our son’s enthusiasm, our daughter with her tongue poking out and me frowning in displeasure down at my page. I swat at him and he laughs again, knowing I’m not really irritated at him. That’s why we don’t need photos; Peeta captures all of what makes us _us_ in a way that nobody else can cheapen by making it their viewing pleasure. All of our family memories are _ours_. And they are done by the hand of the man whose memoties the Capitol tried to darken forever.

 Our children come to the sofa we’ve been reclined on to compare pictures, and our daughter makes a beeline for her Papa so her boisterous younger brother doesn’t bounce on Peeta and jostle where we’ve elevated his leg. She curls close and explains her picture while our son deciphers his scribbles to me and I take the meaning behind the mash of colours and kiss him for the thought behind it all. We swap children carefully, and I see the girl eyeing the boy as he crawls across, standing sentry over her Papa before she clambers onto me.

“Yours is even better than mine,” I tell her once she’s done explaining, showing her my blob family with some ruefulness.

She studies the picture seriously, eyebrows furrowed, and then wriggles down off my lap to fetch something in the mass of art supplies on the floor. She returns to my lap and takes an eraser oh so carefully to my page. When she’s done, the tallest of my blob people with the bright yellow lines on top of his head has half a leg less.

“Now it’s perfect, Mommy,” she proclaims firmly. “It’s because before it wasn’t… real. Now it is. And it is perfect.”

Something is happening inside of my chest, both painful and wonderful and oh so warm and explosive. I look over and see something like broken, healed awe on Peeta’s face as he stares at our daughter and then at me. He pulls our son closer subconsciously, swallowing hard. Automatically, I reach for his hand, and our fingers entwine without a single hitch.

“You know, you’re absolutely right,” I tell her father’s eyes staring at me from her suddenly beaming face. “It really is perfect.”

I add this moment right to the top of my list of good things so that it will be the first thing I think of when I need to remind myself that life is something good and beautiful and worth living. There is a lot about purity and innocence, I realise suddenly, that I actually haven’t learned yet. And I think my family is going to teach those things to me.


End file.
